The Truth Within
by Katta
Summary: Long before the birth of Sawyer, there was a boy called James Ford. Whatever happened to him?


**The Truth Within**

"The truth within must be silenced and killed. Be careful! Be careful! Be careful!"

-- Anna Greta Wide (translation by Katta)

* * *

1976

* * *

"There's nothing wrong with Jimmy!" Richard Ford interrupted the principal, leaning forward in his chair.

Mr. Ford was a large man, and the principal thought that the result was rather intimidating, but she refused to let this distract her. "His behaviour has been very disruptive," she said. "This incident with the desk alone..."

"We will _pay_ for the desk. If you want to give him detention - or hell, even suspend him for a week - I'll be all for it. He's an unruly kid, I'll give you that. Needs a bit of discipline. Lots of boys do, at eight. That's not the same as being crazy."

"No one's saying it is," said the principal patiently. "But Jimmy seems to have trouble adjusting, and I think you will agree with me that the desk - and the rest of it - are just symptoms of a bigger problem." She pulled a piece of paper from the file in front of her. "Now, if you would take a look at this drawing Jimmy did a couple of days ago..."

Mr. Ford looked at the drawing, and then at Jimmy, who sank deep into the worn, brown armchair, wrapping his feet around its legs.

At long last, Mr. Ford pushed the offensive drawing back across the table to the principal. "His parents just died, for chrissakes," he said, his voice hoarse. "Did you expect him to be drawing flowers and puppies?"

"No, I don't." The principal glanced over at Jimmy, and her expression was so full of pity that the boy looked down, blushing with discomfort. "Grief is a very natural emotion, but that doesn't mean we can't still need help processing it."

"No offence, ma'am, but the human race is - what? A couple of million years old? Somehow we got along just fine before the headshrinkers came along."

The principal sighed and twirled her pencil between her fingers for a while. Finally, she said, "Perhaps we should continue this discussion alone, Mr. Ford."

He shrugged. "Fine by me."

When Jimmy made no move to leave the chair, his uncle gave him a light slap at the back of his head. "Go wait outside, kiddo."

Jimmy left, dragging his legs. He didn't have the courage to listen at the door, in case his uncle opened the door, and so he sat down in a chair a lot like the ones inside, except it was green instead of brown. He fidgeted with a loose thread, and then pulled his legs up, resting his chin on his knees.

It took way too long before his uncle showed up. The principal had stayed in her office, Jimmy noticed. "Uncle Rick, is it..."

"Put your feet down from the chair, boy," Uncle Rick said. "You weren't raised in a barn."

Jimmy put his feet down immediately, but his uncle had alraedy left and was heading down the corridor. Uncle Rick's strides were so long Jimmy had to almost run to catch up with him.

"What did she say?" he asked.

His uncle'ss jaw tightened. "You'd better behave, or they'll send you to the nuthouse." He swirled around, glaring at his nephew. "Is that clear? No more fights, no more destroying school property, and for fuck's sake don't draw any more dead bodies!"

He was yelling the last part in Jimmy's face, and Jimmy wiped away the drops of saliva.

"No, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'll be good."

* * *

"Here you are, ma'am," Jimmy Ford said with a wide grin, handing his painting to the teacher.

Emma Talbot, who had been teaching third grade for twenty years and loved to see a child blossom in front of her eyes, smiled back. Jimmy had a very endearing smile, and it was really quite amazing how both his conduct and his school results had improved lately. Two weeks ago, she'd had trouble getting him to do any work at all; now his homework showed a steady B average.

With all the children heading out, she didn't have time to talk to him, but when they were all gone, she pulled out his painting from the pile and gave it a closer look.

It showed a small brown dog standing in a meadow, surrounded by blue and red flowers. It was no great work of art even for an eight-year-old, but it was very sweet and pleasant: the work of a healthy, well-adjusted little boy.

It seemed Principal Pearce had done a wonderful job of solving the problem.

* * *

1977

* * *

If it hadn't been a sunny day, Jimmy might never have seen the gun. It was lying under a couple of magazines on his uncle's bedstand, and Jimmy was just passing by in the hallway. The sunlight created a glimmer in the metal that caught Jimmy's eye, and he stepped inside to see what had caused it.

The gun was smaller than the one his daddy had owned, but thicker. It looked heavier too, but all in all, they weren't all that different. Jimmy picked it up and turned it over in his hands, feeling its weight. Then he put his finger on the trigger and held the gun up as if pointing it at somebody.

This was how you killed a guy. He wondered who Uncle Rick wanted to kill. He knew who _he_ would kill, if he ever got the chance.

But there was no one else in the room. Jimmy lowered his arms, uncertain what to do. After a while he lifted the gun again, one-handed this time, and put the muzzle into his mouth.

It tasted awful, and it was a lot colder than he had expected. He closed his eyes and imagined pulling the trigger.

No. This was wrong. Daddy had been right-handed. Jimmy switched the gun over to his right hand. It felt off, holding it that way, clumsy and awkward, but he had to do it right. He sat down on the bed and once again closed his eyes. Now all he had to do was squeeze...

"Jimmy!"

Jimmy's eyes flew up, and his hand jerked on the trigger. Nothing happened. He stared at the gun, dumbfounded. What had he done wrong?

And then Aunt Adèle was there, ripping the gun away from his hand so fast it hurt.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" she shrieked, her eyes full of tears. "You could have died! Do you understand that? Do you want to die?"

"N-no," he stammered, caught up in his aunt's sudden burst of emotion. He wished she wouldn't be so loud - her voice was hurting his ears.

"You are _so_ lucky that thing wasn't loaded! What were you _thinking_?" She slapped him - hard - and he stumbled back, touching his cheek.

When she spoke next, it was almost in a whisper. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

"No," he protested, "I was just... I was testing..."

"You don't test this gun, Jimmy," she said. "You don't _touch_ it. I don't ever want to come here and find you..."

She interrupted herself and drew a long, shaky breath. He hated that she was this upset; it made his skin crawl.

"Promise you'll never touch it," she said, "and I won't tell your uncle about this."

He nodded, and she gripped his arms hard.

"Promise!" she repeated.

"I promise," he squeezed out.

She dragged him up from the bed and ushered him out of the room, closing the door behind him. He stood in the hallway, shook up and with an aching hand where she'd ripped the gun away. After a while, he slowly walked into his room and picked up some comic books.

The mark on his face faded within the hour, but he got a bruise on his finger after the trigger. His uncle started keeping the gun locked up, but never talked about it, so Jimmy was fairly certain that whatever Aunt Adèle had told him, it wasn't the truth.

He was mildly surprised that he could trust her to lie for him.

* * *

1979

* * *

Mr. Lee stopped behind Jimmy's chair, and picked up the ruined textbook in his large hand. "What happened to this?"

Jimmy looked down, knowing he had to come up with a very good lie within seconds. "I dropped it in a puddle."

The teacher turned the book over, leafing through the pages. "Dropped? It looks like it's been in battle. Crumpled, torn... is this a shoe print?"

Jimmy looked down, making himself as small as possible. Sooner or later, Mr. Lee would come to some sort of conclusion on his own. Before then, there was no point in trying to explain.

Mr. Lee crouched down so his dark eyes became level with Jimmy's blue ones. His expression was so concerned and sympathetic that Jimmy knew he wasn't really in trouble.

"Would you please come outside with me, Jimmy?" Mr. Lee asked after a beat.

Jimmy obediently pushed his chair back and followed his teacher into the corridor. The two of them sat down on a bench. Jimmy's feet dangled above the stone floor. This year, he was shorter than most of his class mates.

"Jimmy..." Mr. Lee started, halted, then tried again. "Did someone... destroy your book on purpose?"

Jimmy's ears started to burn. He nodded slowly.

"Someone in this class?"

It occurred to Jimmy that if the questions kept being like this, he wouldn't even have to lie. He nodded again.

"Can you tell me who it was?"

Jimmy shook his head, biting his lip so he wouldn't risk a smile. Without ever making the suggestion, he had convinced Mr. Lee that he was bullied. Now all he needed was to choose a bully. He wouldn't name names, of course - he wasn't stupid - but it probably helped to know who you weren't talking about.

Kenny McCormick, he decided. Kenny was an overgrown idiot who liked to terrorize the smaller kids to make up for the fact that he was a total loser. He'd been up to see the principal as late as last week.

"Jimmy... If you were threatened in some way, I want you to know that we can protect you."

He shook his head and rubbed his upper arm as if it hurt, trying to look like he wasn't even thinking about what he was doing. Kenny was well known for pinching people's arms.

"He won't get to you, Jimmy."

He didn't answer. No need - the story was set in motion. It was almost too easy.

There was a long silence, and then Mr. Lee sighed and stood up.

"All right," he said. "You can go back inside. I won't tell anyone."

Jimmy stood up and started for the classroom, but there was one question left to answer. He turned around when his hand was already on the doorknob, as if he had just come to think of it. "The book... what's gonna..."

"I'll see if I can find you another one."

Since Mr. Lee was still behind him, Jimmy _did_ dare to smile a little as he walked back into the classroom. This was more than getting out of trouble unscathed. This was a freaking home run.

* * *

1981

* * *

The park was just a green patch in a remote part of town and there was nothing of interest going on there unless you were 80 years old and into checkers, but for some reason it was still a gathering point for teen boys with nothing to do. This evening, it was Bobby and his gang who were occupying themselves by tossing beer cans into the flower beds.

Randall (who'd kick your ass before he let you call him Randy) was sitting down on the ground, bored to tears and pretty sure the others were too, though he knew they'd never admit it. Even drunkenness couldn't hide what a pointless game this was.

"Hey! Hey!" That was Bobby, prodding him with his elbow and nodding towards an approaching kid. "Would you look at that?"

Randall looked. He saw a blond, skinny boy, twelve, maybe thirteen years old and with hands and feet he hadn't quite grown into yet. Neatly cut hair and a pink cardigan. Jesus.

Bobby was up on his feet in no time. "Hey, kiddo! You want a beer?"

The kid stopped on the path, an uncertain frown on his face. Randall rolled his eyes. He had seen this game played too many times already.

"Come on!" Bobby beckoned, while the others were jeering. Come have a beer with us!"

The kid watched them for a while, making no move to bolt or fight or do any of those other things kids tried to do. Then he made a little jerk with his head. "All right."

The gang cheered, and even Randall grinned at the words. This wasn't the first kid to agree of his own free will, but they'd been few enough that getting another one made the whole thing more interesting. How long would the bravado last? All the way through, or would they be treated to a preppy kid puking his guts out in the rosebushes?

"That's our boy," Bobby said. He tried to grab the back of the kid's head, to force the beer down, but the kid ducked and grabbed the can. For a beat, the two of them stared at each other, and then the kid took a sip.

He made a face that told Randall as clear as anything that this was the first drink he'd taken in his entire life, but then he tilted the can and drank it all.

They all laughed and applauded him. Randall too, but then he met the kid's eyes and his laughter died. There was a hard, aged expression in those eyes, and it made him wonder if they weren't messing with the kid - but that _he_ was messing with _them_.

"What's your name?" he asked out loud.

The kid hesitated for a second and then said, "James."

"James!" Bobby declared. "Hooray for our new pal James! Do you smoke, James? What am I talking about, of course you do. Have a smoke, it'll bring hair to you chest."

James had a smoke, and covered up the coughing remarkably well for a beginner. It was funny to watch, and almost a little bit cute, but Randall couldn't get rid of that chill.

He wanted to ask James the question that kept bugging him: _Why are you wearing that disguise?_

He didn't, though. It wasn't like he'd get an answer anyway - just a reputation as a nutjob.

* * *

1982

* * *

"Hey, you!"

James turned around, slowly. There was no mistaking that tone of voice, it meant 'you're gonna get your ass kicked, your little punk.' It was one of the dangers of junior high, and he supposed he'd been lucky to last so long before anyone 'hey you'-ed him.

He looked over the three big guys approaching him, recognizing them as Terry Peyton and a couple of his goons. Basically, they were the Kenny McCormicks of ninth grade. Strong, he'd give them that, but not much going on upstairs.

"That was _my_ locker you took."

James knew that was a load of bullshit. Lockers were assigned every new schoolyear, and unless Idiot Terry was way more into David Cassidy than he looked like he would be, James's locker had belonged to someone else last term.

"Oh yeah?" he said sweetly. "Bummer."

The bullies glanced at each other. They seemed to have noticed that something wasn't going the way it should, but they weren't smart enough to figure out what it was.

Jimmy Ford had been James to himself for several months now, but it wasn't something he talked about. To the casual observer, the biggest change to him this year was that he'd grown several inches, which made him look skinnier than ever. He was quiet and respectful in class, he still earned a B average, and there were several girls that had started to give him glances. Even a boy or two, though that was something he wasn't sure what to do with.

Some not so casual observers, though, had started to get a suspicious expression when they looked at him. Even some of his new pals didn't seem so sure what to make of him. And that suited him fine.

The glances of these three were as casual as you could get, and it would never occur to them that a single eight grader would cause them any trouble.

"You're gonna give it back," the Terry said, "or we're gonna smash your face in so bad..."

James didn't wait for the rest of the threat. He clawed out with both hands at the bullies to his sides, aiming for their eyes, and kneed Terry hard in the balls.

Three to one wasn't very good odds, and James found himself caught by at least four strong arms, but that didn't stop him. Sooner or later they were gonna beat him senseless, but they depended a bit too much on their superior strength to do the trick, and James was fighting dirty, kicking and biting for all he was worth. Even the strongest bullies had weak spots, and if he was really lucky, they'd tire of him before they had time to really hurt him.

"What on earth is going on here?"

Or that would happen.

At the sound of the teacher's voice, the bullies let go, and James sagged against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

"He started it," one of Terry's goons said in a sheepish voice.

James grinned into his hand. It was the truth - but it sure as hell didn't sound like it.

As the teacher was yelling at the bullies, James noticed something new in the way the other kids looked at him. Something like respect - almost appreciation. Like he'd been doing this for _their_ sake. It pissed him off. When had he ever done anything to make them think he gave a crap? He didn't need anyone, and he sure didn't want anyone needing him.

* * *

1983

* * *

Jenny Dubreuil was having a rotten night. Her supposed date had spent all evening talking to his pals instead of her, and finally she had given up on him and just left. She refused to go home, though. After the long discussion she'd had with her mom on the proper age to start dating, and how responsible she was, and what to expect, she wasn't going to let herself in for the "I told you so" expression.

So instead she was riding her bicycle in circles through town and wishing a horrible death on Tennessee boys in general and moonface-Kevin in particular. Maybe his pimples would grow into horrible, pus-filled boils and kill him. Boils made for a nice death.

She was getting thirsty. It was late enough by then that she could return home without anyone mocking her, but home was pretty far away, and she could see a baseball field just down the road. She'd been there a couple of times and thought she'd seen a water hose by the field. Even if she was wrong about that, there were always shower rooms.

She got off her bike and started climbing the fence. It was high, but not too high - the field was mostly used for little league and high school games that were free anyway.

When she reached the top, she froze. There was someone on the field. A scrawny white boy at about her own age – fifteen or so. He didn't seem to notice her, though, and he was...

Jenny's eyebrows flew up as the boy carried a trash can into the middle of the field and emptied its contents there. She sat back on the fence, so interested that she forgot her thirst. It seemed like she wasn't the only one in a bad mood.

The boy emptied some other trash cans on the field as well, creating a large pile of trash, and then poured something out of a large bottle on the heap. Jenny couldn't see what it was, but what she _did_ see was how he bent over the trash pile and how flames and smoke started rising from it.

"Jesus," she breathed, hurrying to slide down from the fence. She ran up to the boy and shouted, "Stop that! You're gonna get caught! You idiot! You're gonna get caught!"

He whipped around, and only then did she remember that while she had been watching him, he hadn't been aware of her presence. She also realized that he was crying.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.

She took a couple of steps back, bewildered by his tears. "I'm Jenny..." What a weird place for introductions. "You have to put it out," she said, watching the flames rise higher. The pile smelled really bad - gasoline, she realized. Boy, this could turn ugly. "They're gonna see it."

"They who? Nobody comes here this late."

"Well, they're sure as hell gonna come when they see _that_!" she said, pointing at the burning pile.

"What do you care, anyway?"

She opened her mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say, and he made a derisive noise between his teeth before turning back to the trash pile, where he started kicking the trash on the edges into the center of the fire.

There was a sound of a car pulling to a halt outside the field, and he stopped, giving Jenny a panicked, wide-eyed look. So _now_ he got that there was a danger of discovery.

After watching him for so long, she kind of felt that they were in this together. She grabbed his arm and started pulling him along. "How fast can you climb the fence?"

He shook his head and jerked himself loose from her grip, picking up a trash can. "Cover for me. I've just got a plan." Then he ran off with one of the trash cans.

"What are you..." The hose. He must be heading for that damn water hose she had been looking for in the first place. How stupid was he?

She ran after him and grabbed his arm again. "Water just spreads the flames. You're can't put it out that way." Not to mention that he wouldn't have the time.

"Wasn't planning to." He glanced over her shoulder and then threw his arms around her. "Don't blow it now."

She stumbled back, awkwardly patting his head, and wondered what the hell he wanted from her.

"We just saw the fire and I'm devastated," he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

"That's a real dumb plan," she whispered back.

"Best kind."

Hurried footsteps approached and Jenny turned her head, seeing a tall, muscular man running toward them. The boy pressed something into her pocket - a lighter, she realized - and she really hoped the plan would work, dumb as it was, because that man looked like he could kick their asses all ways from Sunday.

"What's going on here?" the man shouted.

"It's awful, isn't it?" she said, hugging the boy who was still holding on to her for dear life. Great, he left it to _her_ to explain this mess? They were definitely going to get caught - she was a lousy liar. "I've never been here before, but for him..."

The man gave them a suspicious scowl that made Jenny breathless. Oh God, he wasn't buying it.

The boy jerked his head up to look at the man, then at the fire, before burying his face in her jacket again. "We got to put it out," he mumbled.

"Shh, baby," she said. "I know, but we can't. Not when all we've got is water."

The man's features softened. "Ford?"

The boy pulled himself together - appeared to pull himself together, she reminded herself - and let go of her. "Hey, coach," he said, wiping the tears off his face.

"What are you doing here?" the coach asked, but the suspicion was gone from his face. He looked pretty friendly now, though more than a little embarrassed. "Did you see who did this?"

"No," the boy - Ford - said. "We just got here. I was gonna show her the field, and then.." He bit his lip. "I wanted to put it out. She wouldn't let me... said I was doing it wrong."

The coach looked at Jenny, who said, "It smells like gasoline."

He nodded briefly and pointed to the end of the field. "Go get the extinguisher over by the changing room. I'll call 911."

They did as they were told, and Jenny found a sort of perverse pleasure in being the good little girl scout and spraying foam onto the flames while protecting the guy who'd started the damned thing.

By the time the fire brigade arrived, the three of them were all sooty and smelly, and the fire was out. The firemen poked around the stinking pile for a while, and Jenny fully expected them to pull some Sherlock Holmes routine of "Considering how the trash is piled and the timing of our arrival, you were the ones to start the fire", but they didn't. Instead, Jenny and Ford got a nod and a 'well done'.

"Can you take your girlfriend home all right?" the coach asked Ford. Jenny didn't need any help to get home, but she appreciated the concern. She thought she might have liked the man if she hadn't just helped Ford get away with burning the field.

"Yes, sir."

The coach nodded and pulled Jenny aside for a second. He looked embarrassed again as he told her, "Don't hold it against him. Some people crack under pressure."

Jenny had a hard time keeping her face straight, but she nodded, trying to look serious. Crack under pressure? She'd rarely seen something so cool-headed as Ford's acting just now.

She and Ford left the field together and she picked up her bicycle. It occurred to her that if he was supposed to have taken her there, better to pretend it was his bike, and so she handed it over to him.

He looked at her as if she was crazy, and she faltered, thinking maybe she should just take it back. Just as she started pulling it closer again, he took the bike without a word. Right, that wasn't suspicious or anything.

They started walking. Once they were out of sight from the field, he asked her, "Do you want me to take you home for real?"

She shrugged. "Might as well."

"Jenny, was it?" he asked with a grin.

"Yeah."

"James." He reached out his hand, and she shook it.

"Not Ford?"

"Both. James Ford."

"So, James Ford," she said, "apart from apparently being my boyfriend for the evening, are you a pyromaniac or something?"

That made him laugh. "Nah. I just got pissed." He made a grimace. "I hate baseball."

"I thought you were on the team?"

"Yeah, I am."

"O-o-oh!" she said, smirking at him. "So basically, you're just a maniac."

"Basically, yeah," he agreed.

"Good to know."

He stopped short, looking very serious all of a sudden. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"That you're a maniac or that you started the fire?" she quipped, but he didn't smile. "If I wanted to, I would've done it already."

His face hardened. "I don't need any favours. Why'd you do it?"

Considering that he'd asked her for the huge favour of covering for him, that was pretty rich. She thought about telling him to go fuck himself, but instead she found herself wondering why she _had_ been helping him, when all she got for it was sneers and insults. So she gave it some thought and answered: "I was bored and miserable, and this... this was kind of exciting."

She gave him a mischievous smile, and this time he smiled back.

"So you're a maniac too."

"A little bit, yeah."

"Good to know."

* * *

"I'm not defending Iago!" Arbenita said, her voice going up in that grating falsetto she used when she got riled up.

Ms. Griffin hid a grin behind her hand. She loved it when debate got high in class, and it was especially nice to have the source of discussion be something as "uncool" as Shakespeare.

"All I'm saying," Arbenita continued, "is that whether Othello was duped or not, he's still responsible for his own actions. Violence like that doesn't just come out of nowhere!"

The bell rang, and the half of the class that wasn't caught up in the discussion rose from their chairs, the scraping sound drowning out the last part of Arbenita's argument.

"Great discussion!" Ms. Griffin said. "Now hand in your reports, and next week we'll proceed to Moliere."

As the class headed for the door, she noticed Jimmy Ford coming in the door, picking up his school bags before handing her his report. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Half an hour is a bit long for a bathroom break, Jimmy."

"Stomach problems," he said with a grimace. "You don't want to know the details, trust me."

He headed for the door, and she scanned his report. Frowning at what she saw, she said, "Jimmy, this is not what I asked for."

He turned back, and instead of his usual open smile there was a scowl on his face. "I know. I liked Twelfth Night better," he said, not meeting her eyes.

"Well," she said, momentarily at a loss of what to do. This wasn't like Jimmy. He was usually very compliant in class, and his analyses were intelligent if not always very creative. "That's... it's not about what you _like_. I asked you to write a report on Othello. That's what we're discussing. How can you participate in the discussion if you haven't read the play?"

"I've read it," he said reluctantly. "I just can't write about it."

"You don't have to like it," she said, trying to figure out what was going on. "You can write about why you didn't like it, that's perfectly fine. Perhaps if you wrote..."

"I can't write about that play," he said between clenched teeth, raising his head.

Ms. Griffin took an involuntary step back at the glare he gave her. Where was the boy she had been teaching these past six months? It occurred to her that she was standing in a corner, and she felt a rush of panic. If he turned violent... (Violent? Jimmy Ford?) She would have nowhere to go.

"The assignment stands," she said, sounding to her own ears almost as shrill as Arbenita. "The same for everyone."

"And if I don't write it?" he asked.

She told him what she'd tell anyone else. "Then I will have to lower your English grade."

He pondered that, and then shrugged. The moment was gone, and the boy before her was just the same as he had always been, perhaps a bit more subdued. "All right," he said, stepping back.

When he approached the door, she asked, "Does that mean I can expect it in tomorrow?"

He turned around and gave her a tight-lipped smile - not his usual boyish grin at all, but not frightening either. "No, it means you'll get to lower that grade of mine."

She would never have thought she'd ever be so relieved to see the back of a student.

* * *

"What the hell is this?" Uncle Rick asked, reading Ms. Griffin's note. "You skipped an assignment? Since when is doing your homework voluntary?"

James sank down in the chair, looking at his toes. "I didn't like the play, okay?"

"No, it's not okay, and don't you take that tone with me!" Rick went up to the chair and yanked James out of it, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You got a pretty sweet deal here, if you're asking me. We're busting our asses making sure you've got everything you need, and I'm willing to bet your friends ain't got half of the free time you're getting. All we ask in return is that you do well in school and stay out of trouble. That's not a whole lot."

James yanked himself free. "It's just a freaking book report," he said. "What's the big deal? It's not like I'm going to college."

"I'm not saing you are," Uncle Rick said. "Once you're eighteen and out of school, it's your business what you do with your life. But while you're under our roof, we set the rules. You're gonna do your very best, or God help you, Jimmy."

"I can't write about that play!" James shouted, knowing he was about to lose control and that there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. It scared the living daylight out of him. His uncle would just keep pushing, and any moment he'd send James too far, and then... The panic built up in his chest.

"Is it because of that girl?" Aunt Adèle asked.

It was the first thing she had said, and both James and Rick turned to stare at her, asking, "What girl?" in similar, irritated voices.

"That colored creole girl you've been seeing. I mean, is it a race thing? Othello is about a black man, right?"

"I'm not seeing anyone," James said sullenly, but it occurred to him that she had just given him a probable excuse. A bit dopey, sure, but nothing real crazy. He changed his tone, fighting to control his panic so he could make the lie credible. "I guess... yeah, I guess it makes a difference. The whole thing just... rubs me the wrong way."

"God damn it," Uncle Rick muttered. "You let a kid choose his company and the next thing you know, he's too sensitive for school. Is there anything else you're too good for? Maths?"

"No, sir," James said, forcing himself not to smile.

"All right then. Go to your room. You're grounded."

James walked up the stairs and made sure to lock the door and shut the Venetian blinds before he sat down on the bed and started laughing quietly to himself.

* * *

1984

* * *

"Hey, Baton Rouge!"

Jenny stopped on her way to the bus stop and looked around. Seeing Ford come towards her, she gave him a friendly wave. He didn't return the wave, though - or the friendliness. On the contrary, he seemed pissed for some reason.

"Hey, Blondie," she said when he came up to her. "What's eating you?"

He pulled her close and hissed, "Have you been smoking pot in my room?"

Okay, that was unexpected. "Have I what?"

"Have you been smoking _pot_ in my _room_? It's not a difficult question."

"No, but it's a freaking weird one." She almost added "even coming from you," but thought the better of it. Sometimes Ford had no sense of humor. "Why would I go to your house to smoke pot when I usually go there to see _you_ and you don't even _smoke_ pot?"

He rubbed his cheek, scowling. "I figured you might've done it while I was out."

"I got better places to light up, Blondie," she told him. "Why do you ask, anyway?"

"My uncle said he could smell pot," Ford said reluctantly. "Gave me hell over it, too."

Well, if that wasn't irony for you. All those things that he did and got away with, and then he got himself chewed out for something he wouldn't even do. Not that she hadn't done her best to make him try, but he was real uptight about the whole thing, like drinking everyone under the table was all fine, but somehow a little reefer was out of the question.

"Did _you_ smell anything?" she asked.

"Nah, not a thing. I figured maybe he's got a better nose for it."

"Or maybe he's just plain loopy, didja ever think of that?" she asked, and then added with a grin, "Unless that aunt of yours has been smoking pot when you weren't looking."

That lightened his scowl and got him to show a shadow of that Jimmy Ford grin. "Aunt Adèle? Not hardly."

The bus appeared at the end of the road, and she got the money ready for her fare. "See you tonight?"

He grimaced. "What do you think?"

"Grounded, huh?" She would have sneaked out, but she knew that wasn't how Ford did things. Out on the streets, he wasn't scared of taking chances, but there were, like, lead walls between that life and his home life. Jump off a cliff, but don't let Uncle see you do it.

She jumped on the bus and gave him a quick nod before she sat down. It wasn't a bad way of running business, she supposed. She wouldn't have minded having Mom off her back once in a while. Trouble was, when she did the innocent routine, no one ever bought it.

* * *

1985

* * *

The hospital room smelled of death. Not blood, or gore, or piss, or any of those things. Just death. James almost turned and left, right then and there, but his uncle's dull gaze met his, and he found himself sitting down instead.

"What're you doing here?" Uncle Rick asked. The words came out a bit slurred.

James shrugged, looking out the window. Fucking boring view, just a parking lot and a couple of grey concrete houses. Guess you didn't have to make things pretty for the dying. "Just visiting."

"Adèle's idea, huh?"

"Yeah."

They both stayed silent for a while, and James wondered how long he'd have to sit there before Aunt Adèle thought he'd done his duty in there. How the fuck did she cope with going in every single day?

"Well," his uncle said after a long pause, "It's sure good to see you, Johnny."

James flinched as if he'd been hit. "I'm Jimmy," he said, his voice unnaturally loud. "Your nephew. Jimmy."

Uncle Rick wasn't listening. "I've missed you," he said. "Why'd you go and do a stupid thing like that?"

"Don't you hear me, old man?" James asked, grabbing hold of his uncle's shoulders, ready to shake some sense into him if he had to. "You're talking to someone who ain't here. It's Jimmy."

"I tried to care for the kid," Rick whispered, looking all old and fragile. What had happened to the giant man he used to be? This shriveled-up, spider-like stranger was scarier than that man had ever been. "I don't know if I did right by him. He's... hard to get. Too much like you."

"I'm not!" James protested, feeling all cold inside. He was the one shaking now, his hands hardening their grip. "I'm nothing like him! You're lying! I'm not!"

Uncle Rick licked his cracked lips. "Johnny..." he said, and then, "Jimmy..."

James's hands fell limply down, and he took a step back, shaking his head. "No."

"I tried my best, kid," his uncle said, and never had his voice sounded so soft. "It's still there... inside you... It's gonna be the death of you some day."

"No," James said again, wrapping his arms around his chest. "I'm not gonna die. _You're_ gonna die. You're gonna lie there and _rot_, and I'm not gonna die! You don't even know me! I'm gonna get out and stay out, and nothing's ever gonna get to me!"

There was a weak, breathy laugh from Uncle Rick. "Just like old times."

"Fuck you," James cursed, running out of the room and past his aunt, who was sitting in the corridor.

"Jimmy?" he heard her call behind him, but he didn't stop, not even at the elevators. He refused to shut himself into one of those things, forced to go down at their pace, stopping at each level to let doctors and patients in and out. Instead, he went looking for the stairs, and found them behind a door further down the corridor. It had "staff only" written on it, but what the fuck.

The stairs led down to a row of offices, but he ran past them, heading for the exit signs. Once outside, he found himself in one of the parking lots he had seen from the windows. Row after row with cars – if only he'd paid attention back when Bobby used to hotwire them, so he'd known how to use one to get away.

He kicked the tire of the nearest car in fury and pounded on the metal of the trunk with his fists. Then he kept going, slower now that he was out of that place, but still at a quick pace.

Something glimmered inside one of the cars, and he slowed to a halt, looking again to make sure he'd seen what he thought he had.

Yup. Some poor idiot had locked his keys in the car - an ugly-ass beige Volvo, but at least it was a car. James tried the handle, but the door was locked all right.

He put his fist through the passenger's window. It was satisfying to see and hear the crunching glass, feel it sting his skin. He reached in and unlocked the door, and then opened it and scooted into the driver's seat.

Hearing the purr of the engine right then was like listening to a choir of angels. James leaned his head back and just reveled in the moment for a second before stepping on the gas and steering the car out of the lot. Finally a ride he didn't have to return the next day.

He was laughing as he drove up to the freeway - the home of the fucking free.

* * *

"What I want to know is what kind of a jerk goes to a _hospital_ to steal a car," the cop said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Was it a joke to you? Some kind of test for your friends?"

James stared into the wall, hating this man with all his might. He wasn't used to adults talking to him like that, and he didn't have the energy to slip into Jimmy-mode, so he just stuck to doing what James would do - what his friends did in these situations. It took a lot less effort.

Okay, so this was it. Game over, he was totally and completely fucked. It surprised him a bit that he didn't care more.

"What's your parents' phone number?"

"They don't have a phone."

"They don't have a phone," the cop repeated in cold disbelief, rolling his little pig eyes. "What are they, Amish?"

"No, six feet under," he sneered, wanting to get that stupid fucker to lose his calm.

It didn't work. Damned man didn't as much as raise an eyebrow. "Where do you live?"

"Fuck you."

"Oh, that's clever." The cop gave a half-smile. "Well, little boy, you may think you're tough, but you're still just a kid. I'm thinking you don't really want to spend the night in jail. Who do I call?"

Tired of the whole thing, he gave in. "671-8083."

"And whose phone number is that?"

"My aunt and uncle's."

The cop nodded and reached for the phone.

"They won't be there," James said.

The cop put his hand down again and sighed. "Where will they be?"

"Where do you think?"

"Six feet under?"

James gave a snort of laughter at that. "Wait a week, maybe."

The cop gave another sigh, and there was something in his eyes that James didn't like at all. "Son, is there someone who'd come for you?"

James looked away, not wanting to meet those eyes. He hadn't asked for sympathy - that was Jimmy's thing, and he couldn't be both of them at once.

"You could call my aunt at the hospital."

"The same hospital where you stole the car?"

James nodded, still looking away. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and pushed his shoulders up in a James mode, but it was fucking hard sticking to James with a soft-eyed adult across the table.

"What's her name?"

"Adèle Ford."

The cop stood up and got a phone book off the shelf behind him, browsing the pages for a while before picking the phone up.

James tried to tune out the phone call, wondering what the hell he'd do when Aunt Adèle got there. It'd be pretty harsh to introduce her to James while Uncle Rick was dying, and he didn't think he could switch to Jimmy with the cop present - it wouldn't be believable. Maybe he could find someone else, some kind of middle ground that'd make sense to both sides, but the thought of doing all that_ and _staying out of jail gave him a headache.

The cop put the phone down. "It seems... your uncle's slipped into a coma. Your aunt said she wanted to stay with him. So you'll have to stay here overnight."

James stared at him, having a hard time finding the words. "What, she's not coming?"

"She said she'd arrange for someone to come pick you up tomorrow morning. Of course, if there's anyone else you want to call..."

James shook his head. He was feeling strangely numb. Well, this was sure a solution he never would have thought of - no need to meet both the cop and Aunt Adèle at once, and plenty of time to think of an excuse. Saved him a lot of trouble, really, but the thought of staying the night in jail still gave him an icy pit in his stomach.

At least now he knew Aunt Adèle's priorities. First good thing about this whole pile of shit.

* * *

1986

* * *

"I don't know what's gotten your panties in a twist," Ford said, making Jenny want to hit him real hard with her beer bottle. She didn't, though. Wouldn't do to waste the beer. "You and I ain't dating. I got a right to chat up a girl if I think she's pretty."

"I don't give a flying fuck if you do," she said. "I just don't need to sit there and listen while you sweet-talk any bimbo that meets your fancy. Telling her how pretty she is, how smart and special, and how you totally don't deserve her. Yeah, real special 'til the next _itch_ comes, and you're all grabbing my ass, going 'Hey, baby, wanna screw?' Well, screw _you_, you son of a bitch."

"What do you want?" he asked, spreading his hands. "Love letters? Proposals? Should I go down on my knees?"

"I want to know why it is that every girl in this world gets compliments from you except the one you're already fucking!"

He rolled his eyes at that, muttering, "Compliments, huh?" His eyes softened and he pulled her closer, wrapping her hair around his fingers. "Your hair's like black silk," he murmured in her ear. "You're skin is so soft... so warm. It's like there's no place I'm so safe as right here, with you..."

Against her will, she felt a shiver of delight run through her body. Then it was gone, and she was just pissed again. She broke loose, swatting his hand away. "Go to hell, Blondie."

"What?" he asked, annoyed. "You asked for compliments!"

"I didn't ask for a load of _bullshit_!"

"Yeah, you did!"

That shut her up, and she closed her hands into fists, furious with him. He was right, of course - all those words were just smoke and mirrors, designed to get from other chicks what she'd give him anyway.

"So that's it, is it?" she asked bitterly. "It's all just a bunch of lies, covering up the worst asshole in human history."

His expression darkened, and he gave a nonchalant shrug with one shoulder. "Why're you sounding like it's news to you? You've known that for years."

"I knew Jimmy was a lie," she said. "I guess I always figured James was one too."

"Well," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Sorry to disappoint, toots."

She hated him then – all of him, every aspect she'd every seen and the ones he never showed but she'd always assumed had to be there.

"You couldn't tell the truth if you wanted to," she said coldly. "It's not _James_ I've been holding over toilets when he puked his drunk guts out. It's not James who's scared of smoking pot, and it sure as hell wasn't James I saw crying that first night at the field!"

"Shut up," he growled.

"Fuck you, whoever you are!" she said. "If you're too fucking chickenshit to let yourself be human for even a second, I can't even be bothered with you."

She started to leave, and then turned back, grabbing her beer bottle. This was one night she didn't want to spend sober.

* * *

The first couple of days, James just assumed that Jenny would come back - maybe not apologize, but show up to hang out the way they always did. Then he started to wonder when she would. And at the end, he realized that she _wouldn't_, and he did his best to shrug it off.

It was three weeks until he saw her again, sitting on top of a car outside the drive-in, drinking.

His first thought was to leave, but instead he walked up to her and said, "Buy a fella a drink, Coco?"

Her face lit up, but then she scowled, and it was a couple of seconds before she put the cork in her wine bottle and tossed it to him. "Drink up, cowboy. I've had my share for the night."

He opened the bottle and took a swig before jumping up to sit next to her. "So where've you been?"

She took a lighter and pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket and lit one. "Places. Hanging with friends I actually like."

"You like me," he said, a lot less sure of that than he'd like to be.

She shook her head slowly, breathing out smoke through her nose. "Yeah, I do, God help me. You're a fucking asshole, Ford."

"Yeah," he agreed, knowing from her tone that she wasn't about to push him off the car, "but I'm exciting and fun to be with - and great in bed."

She gave a derisive snort at that. "Oh yeah. I forgot."

"It's why I'm here to remind you, baby," he said with a grin.

She rolled her eyes, but she did smile a little. Then she went serious again, and looking at the faraway screen where big space monsters fought their battles in front of the lovesick teenagers in the audience, she asked, "And what's in it for you?"

That threw him. "What do you mean?"

"Why are we friends, Blondie?" she asked, sounding sharp. "'Cause I'm an easy fuck? Or 'cause I've helped you out of a couple of tight spots?"

"Jesus," he muttered. He drank deep from the bottle to avoid talking, but her eyes wouldn't leave him. "What the fuck's gotten into you lately?"

"You can't say it, can you?"

It wasn't a dare, not even much of a question, and the only emotion seeping through was tired disgust.

He looked away, and even though his body and soul were screaming at him to keep his mouth shut, he said, "You lied for me. About the fire, that night."

"So?" she asked.

God, she just had to keep _pushing_ it. "So... you're a good kid." Those damn eyes, he could feel them even when he wasn't looking, and he turned to glare back at her. "Fuck it, Jenny, yeah, I like you! What the hell do you want from me?"

Facing the sky and spreading her arms, she said, "God bless your withered little soul, James Ford, I got what I want." She put the cigarette out on the car roof and shook her head. "Why everything has to be such a god damned _struggle_ with you... You said something nice and truthful. Did that kill you? So you like me. I like you. I guess now some higher power is gonna hit us by lightning, or turn us both into _frogs_!"

"Like anyone could tell the difference in your case," he snapped.

She glared at him, and then reached out her hand. "Give me that bottle."

"I thought you said you weren't having any more."

"Yeah, well," she said, jerking the bottle away from his hand, "as we've established, I ain't exactly truthful myself.

* * *

1987

* * *

James pulled the taped-up plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Jordan. "Here," he said in a low voice. As soon as he'd done it, he regretted the move and wanted to take the bag back, go through with the deal as he'd promised.

But he couldn't - he'd known he couldn't the moment he first felt that heavy weight in his hand, and the days since had just made him more sure of it.

Jordan looked down on the bag, and then up at James, his face impassive. "I'd assume this means the job is done," he said, "except I don't think you've ever opened the bag."

"I'm not doing it," James said, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

"You're not..." Jordan chuckled a little. It sounded completely insincere. "You're not doing it. That's funny. 'Cause I got an IOU on six thousand dollars saying you will."

"There are plenty of jobs," James said stubbornly. "You can give me something else."

"I can," Jordan agreed, "but I won't. I have no use for people who bail on me when they don't like my orders. I didn't _make_ you come work for me, did I, Jamie-boy? You're the one who wanted money to buy that car of yours. The way I recall it, you had Bobby Delaney singing your praise night and day around here until I agreed to take you on as a _favor_. Ain't that the way it happened?"

James didn't bother to answer. Nothing he could say would make anything any better.

For a couple of minutes, the place was quiet. Jordan's muscle men didn't say nothing around him unless they had to, and Jordan himself was still waiting for an answer.

"Very well," he finally said. "You're just a kid, so I guess I'll go easy on you."

James raised his eyes, not daring to believe what he heard.

"Give me the six grand back, and I'll forget this ever happened."

Oh _fuck_. James closed his eyes. Yeah, it made sense, but the thought of giving up the car _hurt_. It was the only thing he owned that was worth anything. Everything else - his clothes, his tapes, his walkman, his handful of paperback books - he'd be able to replace for under a hundred bucks in any thrift store. The car was proof that he _was _someone, that he couldn't just be shoved away. It was his way of getting the hell out, and his place to stay when he didn't feel like going back to whatever he was calling "home" that month.

Maybe he could drive off somewhere, leave all this behind him. There wasn't really anything tying him to this town anymore.

"Okay," he said. "You'll get your money."

"Good!" Jordan said, slapping James's shoulder. "Just one thing, though. I need some safety, to make sure you're not bailing on me. So I'll keep the car here until I get the money."

"But then..." James started, but he caught the amused glint in Jordan's eyes and shut up. Selling the car was his only way of raising six thousand dollars, but Jordan already knew that. He was taking the car _because_ he knew it.

"Here you go," Jordan said, handing James the bag back. "In case you change your mind. Oh, and Capper!" He waved one of the muscle men closer. "Say hi to James, Capper."

Capper gave James a bored look, as if he'd seen this a thousand times, which was probably the case. "Hey there."

"Now, I'm sure you'll be a good boy and pay what you owe me," Jordan said to James, "but since you've already backed out of one deal, I wanted you to know that it's _very important_ to pay your debts. If I have any reason to believe you're trying to weasel your way out of this, Capper's going to have a little talk with you on fiscal responsibility. Is that clear?"

James's mouth had gone dry. Rumour had it that the Capper had put at least three different guys in wheelchairs. The car suddenly seemed less important.

His hand shook as he put the plastic bag back into his pocket. How the fuck was he gonna get those six thousand bucks?

Walking slowly out of Jordan's place, he found a payphone on the side of the road and called his aunt up. Two years, and he still knew the number by heart. Through the ringing tone, he tried to come up with a good way to start the conversation, make sure that she listened to him.

"Hi, it's Jimmy," he said when he heard her voice at the end of the line. "I was wondering..."

_Click_

James listened to the drone of the empty line, trying to keep his panic down. She'd hung up on him. She'd fucking _hung up_ on him, and could that bitch hold a grudge or what? He leaned on the glass wall, taking a couple of deep breaths.

His friends, then. What a joke. None of them had six thousand bucks - most were worse off than he was. He tried to think of someone who could loan him any money at all. Randall, maybe. He had a full-time job at a store and no girlfriend to spend his money on.

James hung up the phone, picked it up again and dialed 411, which connected him to Randall's number.

"Hey, Randall, it's James," he said when his friend picked up. "Listen, could you maybe lend me some money?"

A sigh. "What kind of money?"

That annoyed him. "Well, I sure ain't asking you for yen. The regular kind - dollars and cents."

"How _much_ money?"

"How much can you spare?"

"Are you in trouble?" Randall asked instantly.

"I just need some cash, okay?"

Randall sighed again. God damned jerk was so squeaky clean these days he couldn't give you anything without rolling his eyes at you, even over the phone. "Two hundred bucks enough?"

No it wasn't, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. "Any chance you could make it three hundred?"

There was a long silence on the other end. "You're really in trouble, aren't you?"

James bit his lip, trying hard not to snap at Randall. "You know, I'm just asking, it's not..."

"I'll try," Randall said. "I can't promise I can spare three, but I'll try."

James closed his eyes, regretting all the times he'd referred to Randall as Horny Mick. "Thanks, man."

Hanging up, he thought bitterly that all he needed was twenty friends like Randall. Which was exactly what he didn't have.

He tried 411 again. "Hi, I was wondering if you have a Jenny Dubreuil, in Nashville? No? Okay, just give me the number to Vanderbilt University, then."

He had to think on his feet, since the university picked up pretty quickly. "Hello, I'm wondering if you could help me locate one of your students. Jenny Dubreuil. Yeah, I know she's not listed, but it's an emergency... her mother has taken ill. I'm at the hospital right now, so I don't have her phone book..."

Weak-ass story, but the sweet-voiced person at the other end bought it and gave him the number. Thank God for small favors.

He expected Jenny's deep voice with the Louisiana accent and was dismayed when instead he heard a chirpy Yankee girl:

"You've reached Nina and Jenny. We're not in right now, so leave a message. Carl, you scumbag, if that's you, stop calling or I'll have you arrested."

James heard the beep, but said nothing. After a couple of seconds, he hung up. There wasn't a single message for Jenny he could think of that he wanted this person to hear. Let them think it was Carl-you-scumbag calling.

It had been a long shot, he told himself. They hadn't met for several months, and even then it had just been to get themselves drunk and tell each other embarrassing secrets. His had been complete lies from beginning to end, and he'd lost interest when he realized that she was lying too.

So she'd made a new life for herself, with a flat and a chirpy roommate. Kudos to her. He would do the same damn thing if he could.

He sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, and considered his options. Option number one, paying the six thousand, seemed completely out of reach. Option number two was to refuse to pay the money - which would get him his kneecaps shot out by the Capper. He made an involuntary grimace. Option number three: running away. Without his car he'd have to take the bus or train and find a place to stay, and more likely than not, Jordan's people would catch up with him. Which, once again, meant having his kneecaps shot out.

Option number four: whacking the guy he was supposed to have whacked in the first place.

_No_, his mind told him. _No, no, no, no._

But it would have to be "yes," and he knew it. His kneecaps or the life of some guy he'd never even met - that wasn't a hard decision.

_You won't have any use for your kneecaps if you go to jail._

So he'd have to be careful. Plan the thing well. It wasn't as if he had to do it right this instant - he could take a couple of days to get everything figured out.

He took the bag from his pocket, pulled away the tape, and let the gun fall out into his hand. Okay, there it was. He'd use it just this once, to pay back his debt, and then he'd get out of town and never look back.

He needed a drink.

* * *

The bouncer barely glanced at James's fake ID before letting him in. James was grateful - it was a good ID, and he could bullshit his way past almost any bouncer, but he wasn't in the mood for it.

He sat down by the bar and got himself a beer. At first, all he could think about was the murder he was planning. The thoughts ran through his head like rats in a maze, always finding a new and confusing angle. After a while, he started watching the other customers just to get his mind off things.

It took him a while to notice the chick by the end of the bar. She was pretty, but not beautiful - kind of ordinary, really. Her clothes looked good on her, though. Good and expensive. His eyes slid to her shoes, and then to the only pieces of jewellery she was wearing: her engagement and wedding rings.

Classy. Everything about the chick was _classy_, and he got almost angry thinking about how there were people like that in the world.

She caught his gaze and gave him a hesitant smile. He found himself smiling back, though he felt more like sneering. There had been definite interest in that smile of hers. So, the rich little wifey was looking for some action, was she? Well, why the hell not? She was older than him, but he knew women older than that who got all soft-eyed around him.

Bitch like that probably thought it "edgy" to hang around the less fortunate. Thought she was "making a statement" every time she left the house with less than five thousand dollars worth of clothes on her back.

The thought crept up on him slowly and without any real words. He sat up straight, trying to remember some of the body language that had been Jimmy's. Tossed her the million-dollar grin that had melted girls' panties left and right.

This wasn't Jimmy, though. Jimmy had been a good boy - for this, he needed someone tougher, wilder, someone who might be new and exciting to someone like her, but who'd be more trustworthy than James.

He got up and walked towards her, trying to find the right balance, to be the man she'd want him to be.

"Hey," he said, sitting down next to her. "Having fun tonight?"

"I'm getting there," she said. "I like this place, it's very... quaint."

"That's one word for it," he agreed.

So far, so good. Chicks were easy - he'd known how to deal with chicks since before he could drive. He kept talking and watched her smile deepen. He could get her into bed, no problem. Question was, could he get what he really needed?

"Anyway," she said, reaching out her hand. "I'm Becky."

He took it and replied without a moment's thought: "I'm Sawyer."

* * *

THE END

* * *


End file.
